


Like Sunshine and Georgia Dust

by LiteraryJacks



Category: Norman Reedus - Fandom, The Walking Dead (TV), daryl dixon - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Leather vest, Morning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 00:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3629301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiteraryJacks/pseuds/LiteraryJacks





	Like Sunshine and Georgia Dust

I wake up with the golden glow of sunlight speckling my bare skin, the sweet, cool breath of morning on my lips. I stretch and roll my head toward the sunrise. His bare chest is undulating under his steady breaths, punctuating the calm like a familiar melody. The evidence of the dark night is strewn before me on the ground beneath us, in the form of an unbuttoned shirt, a boot with its mate unaccounted for, his jeans, one leg turned inside out to show its underbelly. I smile at the memory, kicking the tattered sheet from me and reaching for his beaten leather vest. When I slip it over my shoulders, it smells like sunshine, Georgia dust, and his skin. It makes me want to feel him against me. I discover he’s almost ready when I peel the sheet from him, his body recognizing mine even in his sleep. One knee sidles against his waist and I spread wide to straddle him, settling softly against his body.

“Baby,” I beckon him in a whisper, drawing my hands over the definition of muscles in his chest, his belly. His eyes open when I clasp his base and push my hips forward, guiding him inside me slowly. He groans in his throat and push against him, rolling my hips forward like waves touching the shore.

He is so hard, so strong, and so, so good. And he is mine.

The worn leather pounds softly against my back as I speed the thrust of my hips, ever so slowly, and there is nothing else but the sun, his hands on my thighs, the slickness between our bodies. I drop my head back and press my palms against his waist to keep me here when I come undone. He curses softly under his breath, and then, huskily and strained: “Baby. I want to hear you say it.” And he gives in to me, pushing his hips in an apex with mine.

“Daryl,” I moan. And I am his. He whispers my name and reaches beneath the lapels of the vest to touch me. The heat of his touch sears my skin, as if there are a dozen tiny flames hidden in the valleys of his fingerprints. I wonder if he can feel the way it makes my heart skitter like a stone over the smooth edge of water. A trail of sweat begins to bloom down my spine against the battered leather, the edge of my hair swinging like a fine pendulum over the stitching of the wings on its back. I think of him shrugging it over his own shoulders, the potion of my scent intoxicating him late into the afternoon.


End file.
